As Though We Were Boundless
by awakeatnight
Summary: "And I know I can't get you back, but some days you seem right there, like if I just tried hard enough, I maybe could." Remus and Sirius' love story (tragedy). slash. Companion to on rooftops' All the Ways We Drowned.


**A/N: **This was written as a companion piece to the story All the Ways We Drowned, by the wonderful, talented, on rooftops.

You don't need to have read her story to understand this, it can easily stand alone, but if you haven't you _definitely _should because it is amazingly fantastic, the basic plotline is hers, and can be found here—

/s/8263243/1/All-the-Ways-We-Drowned (it won't let me put the whole URL, but just paste it after the address for this site)

The numbers before each entry indicate how many months have passed since James/Lily/Peter died and Sirius has been in Azkaban; I think it will make sense while you are reading it.

Oh and this is slash, if you didn't figure that out from the summary, so consider yourself properly warned.

* * *

004

It's been four months—four moons—since my world came to an end, and I am suffocating, Padfoot, from the unanswered questions.

How could I have been so blind? That is what confuses me the most. Maybe it's the rose-coloured glasses that come with being in love, but I would have thought, out of everyone, that I would have known. How could I not? And so the hardest part is that even though I want to hate you, I don't understand, I just don't understand Sirius, how could you? And so I try to hate you, but I never had the chance to fall out of love with you first.

006

I think sometimes, absurdly, about visiting you. Letting you explain, getting some closure. But I cannot fathom what you could possibly say to make it alright, make everything alright.

James and Lily will still be dead, Harry an orphan, and Peter's left finger in a box under his headstone. Nothing would come of it except for more heartache, because maybe this whole time you never loved me anyway, it was all just an act. Well you win, Sirius Black, you made fools of us all. You made a fool of me.

009

I was walking today, because I do that more now these days, it almost feels like, the further I go, the further away from the memories I can get, but of course that's not true. Memories sneak up on me wherever I go.

Like today, a man pulled up to the light on a motorcycle, and it was red and his leather jacket was too tight in the shoulders, and it was so wrong, wrong, wrong. But for a moment I heard it coming, that deep rumble that reverberates through my entire being, and I closed my eyes and for a moment—just a moment—I could pretend like nothing had happened, that I would turn around and you would be there, black rippling hair and laughing eyes.

But his hair was brown, just plain old brown, and his eyes were blank and it was a knife in my gut. Because everything is you.

010

I dream of you most nights. It's bittersweet because I don't want to be in love with you still, always, but the dreams are always half memory and I can pretend, because if there is anything I am good at these days it is pretending. Pretending I am not still in love with you, pretending I have a reason to keep going without all of you here. The nightmares come too, of knowing and not saying anything, and it being my fault, my fault, all my fault.

But I wake up and know it's just a dream because I was just as blindsided as everyone else and I can't help but think that maybe that's worse. Not because I was in love with a murderer, but because the man I am still in love with, turned into a murderer and I never saw it coming.

012

It's been a year Sirius. A year since you destroyed our lives. Destroyed my life I suppose is the better term, because I am the only one left here to feel it. I picked up some flowers to take to James and Lily's and Peter's graves— the place on West 8th Street— although I suppose I could have conjured some, but this just felt more meaningful somehow.

I couldn't bear to get them from Delaney's down on Kenley. I can barely stand to even go past the place these days. Do you remember when Lily dragged us in there to help her pick out flowers for her wedding, because she was sure her sister would _know _if they were magical? Petunia never did end up coming and it broke Lily's heart. But do you remember the day Lily dragged us in there, as if the fact that we were together meant we knew things about centrepieces and bridal bouquets and rose petals?

Well no, actually, that's not true. I'm fairly positive she just wanted to bring us along because she was sick of her girlfriends telling her everything was lovely and she just wanted someone there who would help her just _choose one already_ instead of squealing and pointing out a hundred more things that were "absolutely perfect".

But we went into the shop and helped her choose, and it was not nearly as miserable as we had expected it to be—we were all laughing by the end of the day— and you bought a bouquet and uncertainly put it on our table when we got home. Not quite sure what exactly to do with them—birds love getting flowers, but is it something we do?

I don't think either of us had an answer and it was so damn uncomfortable, but it's funny now, how we both avoided looking at them, sitting there innocently on the table, until they were so far dead that one day I just swept them into the trash. We never bothered with flowers again, and to this day white roses make me want to laugh and cry a little bit simultaneously.

I wonder what you would do if I sent you some. Would you laugh at how uncomfortable they made us? Would you take them as an insult, an "I hate you" from your ex-lover? I do not know and it is strange to say because I always used to know how you would react. Or maybe I just imagined that I did. But I suppose you could add it to the ever-growing list of things I do not know about you.

I do know this, that if I sent them, you would know that I am still here, thinking of you, good or bad is your inclination, but thinking of you none the less. And I cannot decide how I feel about you because nothing makes sense. So maybe I should send them just to leave you in the same sort of ambiguous confusion I am drifting about in.

016

The moon is so much harder to face without you all here—and as much as I am loathe to admit it—especially without you here, Padfoot.

The worst—the very worst—moon I have ever had was right After (I cannot even think about it, yet alone write it). I was so angry, so lost, so hurt, so confused, and I was so anxious for the full moon to finally arrive—so I could be away from all this and have some blessed hours of blissful oblivion—I tore myself apart in my anxiousness to become the wolf. The wolf was restless too, because, I suppose, after nearly six years, he had grown accustomed to companionship. So had I, as it turned out.

The cuts would not stop bleeding and some of the injuries were even beyond my skill— which has come to be much more extensive than I would have ever wished for—and eventually I had to put aside my pride and go to Madame Pomfrey, like I hadn't done since we were in school. And although I was 21—sitting in the hospital wing again as she mended me with pity in her eyes—I had never felt more like the frightened, lost, eleven year old boy she had first met.

021

I overheard two kids today—because that's what they are now, kids, and it's a reminder of how old I feel, how tired. But I suppose you would feel old now too, if you were here in my place, and I were the one behind bars. I like to think of you as dead sometimes. And that sounds terrible and sick, sick, sick, but this way I can try and forget that you are rotting in a cell somewhere and I don't have to try and merge my memories of you, and us, and the man I thought I knew, to the man you turned out to be. Sometimes it is easier to pretend you are dead.

But I overheard two kids, passing through the Leaky Cauldron, and it was probably something about who fancies whom in their year, for they looked to still be Hogwarts age. One asks "Are you Sirius?" and I nearly roll my eyes, but my brain catches up and it's _serious, _not _Sirius_, and I feel the tears prick my eyes because how many times had I heard that stupid, worn out joke?

For a moment I almost expected you to answer, "Why yes, yes I am" like you used to.

026

It is strange that I address these to _you,_ Sirius, but really, who else is left? And I may not have known you as well as I had thought (or even at all, but that is beside the point), but you knew me.

So I guess when I say _you _I really mean the Sirius I thought I knew. And it really doesn't feel as strange as I think it probably ought to, because he turned out to be a figment of my imagination too.

030

I was attempting to clean out some of your things today, only because I really ought to, not because I felt like digging up skeletons. (Yes I still live in the same little flat, because I can neither afford nor bear to leave it).

I found that shoe, well boot, of yours that had no mate. Do you remember that night, Sirius? We were drunk, much too drunk, stumbling out of the pub, you ahead of me, and I grabbed you around the waist and pushed you up against the brick wall just outside the door because you were gorgeous and wonderful, and you loved _me_, of all people, and how could I not?

Our lips were moving furiously against each other's when that man who must have been leaving right behind us, I don't know who he was, but he saw me grab you and kiss you, and he spat at my feet and called me disgusting.

And you, oh Sirius, you were so drunk, and you took off your shoe and threw it at him, hit him square in the nose, and pointed your finger at him and said, "No, _you're_ disgusting!" And then you started laughing, and I couldn't help laughing either, and the man just stood there, his eyes wide in shock, because he just got hit with a _shoe, _and who does that?

We ran off into the night, ending up back at my place, laughing and not giving a damn—although we really should have grabbed your shoe first— and I could hardly stand it I loved you so much.

035

Sometimes I think of that night, with the shoe, and other, more sober ones like it, and wonder, selfishly— and it is going to sound extraordinarily conceited of me, because it sounds conceited in my own head, let alone on paper— if you did all of it for me. Because it is the only thing I can think of that makes any sense at all.

Because the world hates werewolves, but Voldemort, he was offering them a chance wasn't he? But of course it wasn't a real chance, it was a sick and twisted chance, that offered suffering of others and bloodlust and _revenge_. And I never wanted to be what I am, and always fought—fight—the nature of the beast because that's not _me. _Maybe, you turned to him because you wanted revenge for me, in a sick and twisted sort of way. Is that why you joined him, Sirius?

039

I am taunted constantly by memories of us.

And I know I said, before, that I must have never truly known you at all, but for all of your lies and deceit, Sirius, I think that for my own sanity, I have to believe that what we had was real. That the I love you's, and dry lips, and stubble were real because without it most of my life would have been a lie.

042

I remember the first time we met, Sirius, when we were both newly sorted into Gryffindor. I had met—stumbled into, really— James on the train, standing outside the loo. I had (of course) changed into my robes in there— he was waiting to use it—and I quite nearly knocked him over as I opened the door. But he popped back up immediately, an excited ball of energy. I profusely apologized but he just grinned, and noticing my plain black tie, stuck out his hand. "James Potter," he said, "I'm a first year too."

And I smiled because until that moment I had never entertained the idea of having friends here, I was just so excited to be allowed to even _go_ to Hogwarts, and even though he didn't know about me— could never know— it was an amazing feeling not being immediately judged.

We all got sorted, and by some strange miracle, I was put in Gryffindor, and I sat down at the table in wonder, right across from you, although I didn't notice it until later. As it turned out, James was sorted into Gryffindor too, and my stomach did a funny swoop, at the idea of knowing someone, of someone possibly open to being friends with me.

He sat down next to you, and introduced himself and I had the sinking realization that maybe that's just how he was, with everyone, and he probably didn't even remember meeting me at all. I sat, tense and berating my eleven-year-old self, and then he turned to me, smiled and said, "Lupin, was it?" and you know, I don't think I've ever been so grateful.

"Yeah," I said, smiling back, and you and Peter turned and looked at me, smiling a little too. "Remus Lupin," I clarified for the pair of you, and you held out your hand across the table, "Sirius Black" you said as I took it and shook.

I understood, later, but at the time I kept thinking about how I— and all the other first years— were excited, nervous, but you, Sirius, you were _exuberant, _like the world was at your fingertips. And I don't think I ever told you, but it was infectious, Sirius, so damn infectious, and the crazy idea that I could have it all, too— go to Hogwarts, have friends, be _normal— _claimed stake that night and refused to leave.

047

I wonder now, sometimes, if the four of us would have become friends if it were not for James. I'm sure we would have been friendly, we lived together of course, but would we have been the marauders, and everything that encompassed?

He was like the glue that held us all together, four very different personalities; would you and I have ever become what we were without him? I miss him terribly, Sirius, almost as much as I miss you.

051

I think, deep down, I knew long before I admitted it.

So what if my heart pounded a little more when you were around, I thought; Sirius Black made a lot of people nervous, certainly McGonagal. But of course that was a weak argument because I knew that it wasn't the same; McGonagal would be nervous when you and James would get that calculating look in your eyes, not when you smiled at her over breakfast.

So when I finally admitted it to myself, I had a right and proper breakdown, up in the Astronomy Tower, and I avoided you for a week, because how was it fair that I was a werewolf, and then had to add this on top of it?

After my week of denial, when I finally accepted the fact, that yes, I was a werewolf, and yes, I may be more fond of one of my friends than was entirely appropriate, my life became a constant string of almosts. Fingers _almost_ grazing as we walked to class together, knees _almost_ bumping as we sat down across from each other for breakfast, shoulders _almost_ brushing as we hunched over textbooks, studying, side by side.

It was maddening, Padfoot, the way I was hyperaware of your proximity. I tried not to think about it most days, but when I did, late at night, I sometimes wondered if you didn't feel it to. I tried not to hope (because what hope is there for something that can never happen, regardless?) but sometimes, just sometimes—like after the day I had looked up during Defense and found you staring at me, and then your face got a little pink, but you gave me a goofy grin and went back to doing, well, whatever it was you and James were doing— I would stare at my canopy and smile—smile until my face hurt—because I was just so giddy and could not keep it inside any longer.

056

I sometimes go to the town where Harry lives in hopes of seeing him.

(Little Hangleton, do you remember, Sirius? Do you remember how Lily used to call it Little Strangle-ton, with their suffocating, identical houses and too nosy neighbours? Remember how we would laugh, and the lines around her eyes that always appeared when she visited home or talked to her sister—the ones that showed just how much it upset her, try as she might to hide it— how those little lines would disappear when we would laugh? Well, anyway, it is exactly as I imagined it to be when she described it.)

Well, I happened to bump into them at the market— not literally, I saw them and watched from a distance—but I finally saw him, and oh Sirius, he looks so much like James you would not believe. Of course, I never knew James at that age, but give him a couple inches, and he could be the scrawny, grinning eleven year old I met on the train.

Since then I have come back every day, and Petunia seems to come on Thursdays. The more I see him though, the less he reminds me of James. He is a spitting image, don't misunderstand, but this child is quiet, and reserved, and his face reminds me of the way yours would get before we would leave Hogwarts to go back home for holidays. Simultaneously resigned and on edge; I don't think James and Lily would be happy, if they could see him.

He is not the jubilant, well-cared for child that James was. Nor the inquisitive, carefree one that Lily came to school as. He is Harry and he looks sad. I feel horrible Sirius, not being able to do anything.

I would write Dumbledore, if it were not for the fact that, strictly speaking, I was supposed to leave Harry to grow up in peace, without the wizarding world at his doorstep. I like to think observing him hasn't violated this, but I couldn't sleep at night not knowing how he was. And now I cannot sleep at night knowing how he is.

060

I keep thinking that if James was the glue that held all of us together—with his accepting nature and steadfast loyalty—what were the rest of us?

Peter, I think, played the role of peacekeeper. His optimism and kindness often played a buffer between yours and James' stubbornness and the cynicism that you and I were more prone to. I, more often than not, got stuck in the role of being the group's sense of responsibility; with homework, with toning down some of yours and James' wilder schemes, and with making sure we didn't get caught during the ones I couldn't talk the pair of you out of. Sirius, I think you could probably be considered the life of the Marauders, the energy. You were the rash, impulsive, leap-before-you-look one of us. You were the group's sense of adventure.

It is strange how completely different the four of us were but how completely we complemented one another. Sometimes it almost feels like the Marauders were a fated friendship.

064

It was November of 2nd year that I heard the worst words I could have possibly imagined, come from your mouth, followed by the best words I had never hoped to dream of, from James'.

It was a Wednesday and I had finished my Charms essay hours ago, but was sitting up in the common room waiting for the three of you to return. The portrait hole opened and I smiled, not noticing your sombre, determined faces, although that really should have been my first clue that something was amiss. The three of you came over to my corner of the common room and sat huddled around me, an awkward silence settling in, until you finally said,

"You're a terrible liar." The words of my nightmares. You all sat there staring at me, faces serious and unreadable and it was all I could do not to start crying, because I knew what was coming.

"Not that it matters," you said, "but we really would rather you had told us. It took us a long time to sort it out on our own."

I closed my eyes because I could not look at you, any of you. I couldn't stand to see the anger, the hatred; I had known better than to try and make friends. But especially you, Sirius, I couldn't bear to look into your eyes, see the disgust you must feel for me.

"Merlin, Sirius, way to be sensitive." James said to you, sounding cross, and then he addressed me with some of the best words I had ever heard.

"What he means is, Remus, your furry little problem doesn't matter in the least to us, and we want you to know that we're here for you, just as we would be here for you if your mum really were ill."

"Furry little problem?" Peter repeated. "And you accuse Sirius of being insensitive?"

I think I may have choked out a strangled laugh at that. I kept my eyes closed because it was _unfathomable, _completely incomprehensible, that you _knew_, you knew and you were all still here, as if it didn't matter in the least. And then your hand found mine, Padfoot, and squeezed it—briefly but hard—your fingers burning on mine, and the pounding in my heart reached a whole new level of intensity; I was sure the three of you could hear it.

"You're not going to tell everyone?" I whispered, a tear falling down as I finally chanced looking at James, at Peter, at you. "Or run away screaming?" I added.

"Of course not," Peter scoffed, as if the idea itself was entirely idiotic. There was a pause, where you and James shared a glance, and James said,

"Sirius and I have been thinking,"

"—and we think we might know of a way to help you," you finished, your eyes finally meeting mine, a smile on your lips.

068

The thing that really strikes me, Padfoot—that I never expected— is how deafening the silence is.

There are no more unexpected visits from friends, no more worrying explosions and the laughter that would follow, from you and Peter and James— like there was at Hogwarts— there is no crying Harry or Lily softly singing to calm him down.I cannot even listen to music anymore.

I tried, once, but those old records sounded a lot like stolen kisses in empty corridors, leather jackets and midnight whispering behind closed curtains. They got returned to the box of things that I still hold on to but shouldn't, the box in the back of the hall closet, the box that most days I try to pretend doesn't exist.

Now I sit at home in silence, with only the company of my thoughts, because somehow being miserable in the present is so much better than being miserable, remembering being happy in the past.

073

I distinctly remember asking if you had all gone mad.

"Possibly," James admitted, but you smiled and said, "No, we're brilliant."

"But Animagi?" I said, the word sounding distinctly strange on my tongue.

"Easy as pie." You said with a flippant wave of your hand.

"Which is also something you don't know how to do, Sirius." I pointed out.

You shrugged, "We're clever. We'll work it out."

"You're also only twelve. How on earth are you going to 'work it out'?"

"Well, it might take a while," you admitted.

"But it'll happen. We swear." Peter said, smiling.

I couldn't say anything else as the three of you looked at me expectantly. "How do you care this much about me?" I finally asked.

"How could we not?" you replied.

076

I never meant to, the first time, but you surprised me, Sirius, and I couldn't help myself. I'm sure you remember.

We were thirteen and trying to be quiet since we didn't have the cloak— James and Peter were using it down in the dungeons. We were searching for secret passages that lead out of the castle, and I couldn't understand _why_; why you all wanted to leave so badly, when I had never been happier than I was inside of these stone walls.

We didn't end up finding a passageway, but we did find a small, unimpressive, circular room behind the tapestry of the Trolls of Tartan Valley, just beyond the charms corridor. You were tapping the walls with your wand, hoping they would move aside like they did in Diagon Alley, I suppose. You looked so excited at the possibility and I just couldn't understand.

"Why do we even want to find ways out? Aren't you happy enough here, Sirius?" I said, as I stood in the middle of the small room, waiting for you to finish your inspection.

"It's not about getting out," you said as you kept tapping, "or about happiness," you stopped and turned to me, "it's about knowing how to escape, if we ever wanted to."

And I still couldn't get over that, that _we. _Because we weren't the marauders—yet— and I still felt as though it were all some dream, that I would wake up and realize that I had imagined the whole thing, that's how surreal it felt at times.

"We?" I all but whispered, my insecurities leaking out in that tiny, dark room before I could catch them and hold them all inside.

"Well, of course, we," you said, "I'd never leave you behind."

And you probably hadn't meant a single thing by it, but the fact that you had said "I'd never leave you behind" instead of "we'd never leave you behind" made my heart stutter, and my lips were on yours, soft and unassuming, before you'd even a moment to protest.

Realization hit a moment later, and I pulled away, ashamed and flushed from embarrassment, eyes closed because I couldn't stand to see the look of disgust on your face, in case I had been imagining all those _almosts_ that didn't go anywhere.

But you were there, right away, fingers circling my wrists, trying to pull me back, "Remus, Remus, Remus, don't look like that, don't, I—"

But suddenly I didn't want to hear it, couldn't bear to know that what I wanted wasn't nearly as far out of reach as it could have been—because that was somehow worse— so I interrupted you, saying,

"We can't, Sirius." and you nodded and your grip around my wrists fell away and we walked back to Gryffindor tower in silence. And even though we couldn't, I still fell asleep to the thought of your lips pressed against mine.

080

I spoke to Harry today, and oh Sirius, I know I shouldn't have, but he smiled at me and it made my life whole and cut me to pieces all in one.

I hadn't planned on, but it was his _birthday _Sirius, and every time Petunia would speak to him he would look up at her hopefully only for his face to fall in disappointment every time. Is it possible that she had forgotten his birthday? I could not stand the thought. I could never forget.

I could never forget the way that James walked into the waiting room, all of us tired and half asleep—I think Peter may have been asleep, actually— and he says in an awed voice, "The 31st of July" real slowly, like he was rolling the words around in his head, as if they sounded foreign.

"This— this day—is the absolute happiest day of my entire life." He said in wonder, falling into a chair next to us, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, and I remember grinning, just grinning from ear to ear, and you looking at me and grinning too—a little bit at James' shock— but mostly in utter, blissful happiness at the occasion.

And then, of course, how could I forget, "The one with the power to vanquish the dark lord will be born as the seventh month dies…" The words that ended life as I knew it.

No, there is no way for me to ever forget Harry's birthday but it seemed for all intents and purposes that Petunia had, and I couldn't stand it, so I hurried after them, bought the first sweet I could grab—I cannot even remember what—and followed them out to the lot. I split one of the bags Harry was carrying with a quick, whispered spell, and I felt a little badly about it, but I had no other plausible idea at how to stop them.

Petunia gave Harry a scathing glare and ordered him to pick up the scattered items as I had hoped (feared) and continued to her vehicle with her son. Harry stooped and under pretense of helping him, I slipped the package of candy into his hand, scooping up the rest of the groceries for him.

"Happy Birthday, Harry." I said—at the risk of seeming rather stalker-ish, in hindsight—but his 8-year-old face broke into a grin and I positively melted. Right there on the pavement, Sirius, I melted into a puddle of heartbroken goo.

His smile is theirs, both of theirs. It isn't lopsided like James' was, but his eyes crinkle just the same, and he has those dimples, those little, tiny dents on both sides, just like Lily, that you would never notice unless you were looking. But I was, and they were there, and it is amazing how they are still a part of him even though he never got the chance to know them.

Sometimes I feel sad and a little guilty that we knew them so well, got so much time with them, and Harry, poor Harry, got so little. It doesn't seem fair.

081

One of the last times I woke up at your place was after an Order meeting one night, and things had been tense, strained, between all of us as of late, even between you and I, Sirius—a strange uncertainty in what the other was thinking.

You had been deep in conversation with Moody but noticed me leaving and caught up with me at the door.

"Feel like going out tonight?" you asked.

I sighed. "Not tonight, Sirius, I'm exhausted," because I had just come from my sixth (unsuccessful) job interview that month and felt like doing nothing more than curling up on the couch with a huge mug of tea and maybe wallowing just a little bit.

You must have noticed because your voice was softer as you said, "Well come sleep at my place then, it's closer than yours anyway."

By now we were already out on the street, passing through a little alleyway, almost to the apparition point. I scoffed and said,

"Please, Sirius, sleep is the last thing I get when I come stay at your place."

You paused, and looked at me, a grin creeping onto your face, and for a moment, it was like everything was right again— like there was no war, like no one was slipping information to the other side, like we were sixteen again and couldn't keep our hands off each other— as you slowly backed me into the alley wall, your lips meeting mine, hot and breathy.

"Mmmm…" you whispered against my lips, "have I ever told you that flattery will get you absolutely everywhere, Moony?"

I couldn't help but smile into your lips as your fingers crept up to loosen my tie. We did end up at your place, only slightly dishevelled, and just as predicted, little sleep was had by either of us that night.

083

The second time (because it was bound to happen again, the way we felt about each other, even then) was in February of 4th year.

You had gone on a date to Hogsmeade with Alice, while Frank stayed back with us, dying of envy, although I'm not sure if you noticed; you certainly didn't notice the way I was (unsuccessfully) trying _not_ to die of envy. I attempted to convince myself that you could do whatever you liked, because _we couldn't_, but no matter how logically I tried, I couldn't twist it so that it didn't still feel like heartache.

You came back and you were smiling, and you know, I thought that during the (long, agonizing) hours that you were gone I had prepared myself for it, but you smiling was like getting punched in the stomach, and I headed up to our dorm as soon as it wasn't suspicious to do so. Of course that wasn't much relief because not ten minutes later the door creaked open and it was you, just like always. Because you always knew when I was upset.

"It was a rubbish date, in case you were wondering." You said, and I heard the springs in your mattress creak as you hopped onto your bed, next to mine.

I kept my face in my pillow, where a few angry tears may have leaked out, and asked, "Why'd you ask her out then?"

I counted to fifteen before you said, "Dunno," and I pictured you shrugging, although I don't know if you did, "just felt like the thing to do."

I huffed an angry breath into my pillow, and you continued,

"It's not a big deal, Remus. It's not like it meant anything."

And I was so, unbelievably angry with you, when you said that because, why, _why_ put me through this, when you knew how I felt, and I thought I knew how you felt— even if we _couldn't_—for something that didn't matter, had been a whim? I swung around to face you and asked,

"Do _I_?"

"Remus…" you had said, looking stricken, scooting to the edge of your bed, your fingers reaching out to circle my wrists, again, "_of course."_

And you stood up and let go of one my wrists, placing your hand under my chin and you gently pressed your lips to mine. It lasted longer than the first time, your fingers sliding into my hair, mine at your hip, but when we broke apart we both said,

"We can't."

And then you said, "I won't go out with any more girls," And I didn't really want you to, but I said, "That's not fair to you," because it was the truth.

"They don't matter, though, so it isn't fair to anyone for me to go out with them," you replied, your fingers brushing over mine, and I remember wanting to grab hold of them and never, ever, let go. But I didn't, because we had said "we can't", even though we both knew we wanted to.

086

Today would have been—still is, I suppose—your birthday, Sirius. And my treacherous, traitorous mind (funny how that word, that one little word, tore our worlds apart) imagines what we might be doing right now, if you were not where you are, and had you not done what you did.

I wonder if we would have gone out on the town, or maybe called into work and spent the whole day in bed. Maybe we would have been more settled down by now and went to a nice restaurant for a romantic dinner. Or maybe we would have sat on the sofa, watching an old movie, so close to each other that our hearts beat as one.

And it feels so close, like the way you cannot quite remember a dream in the morning, and it is _right there _but you just can't grasp it, can't pull it back. And I know I can't get you back, but some days you seem _right there_, like if I just tried hard enough, I maybe could.

088

It was the very beginning of fifth year when the three of you finally accomplished it; I nearly fell out of my chair in the classroom we were practicing in.

James as a stag, Peter as a rat, and you as a dog.

I know you caught the irony, of two canines running under the moon, from the (smug) way you looked at me when you changed back. Like it was meant to be, somehow, though we both had said we can't. I had smiled, but pushed you—laughingly—away, as Padfoot later tried to rest his head in my lap.

091

I don't know if I have ever been as content with the world as I was late one night towards the end of sixth year, after the others had fallen asleep, when I slipped into your bed; a silencing spell on the curtains. (It was pointless, looking back, how we always waited to slip into bed together once James and Peter were asleep; like they couldn't figure it out when they found one of our beds empty in the morning, and one of our beds containing two.)

You were resting on the pillows, hands behind your head, waiting, just waiting, for me to come join you. Your eyes were darker than I had ever seen them, and your hands were everywhere before the curtains had even settled. You went painstakingly slow, and all I wanted was all of you, right now.

My heart was pounding as you undid the last button on my shirt, your eyes slightly hesitant, asking mine for permission, and I helped you pull it away. It probably shouldn't have been as dramatic as it felt, because you had seen me transform, you had seen all of these scars already, but there was something terrifying about letting you see them so intimately.

I remember, Sirius, the hitch in your breathing when I pulled it away, the slightest, shaky gasp sucked in between your perfect lips. And I had no time to dwell on it at the moment, as your lips and hands were everywhere, but it was reassuring, amazing, that you wanted me as much as I wanted you.

"I, fuck, I _love _you" came tumbling across my lips, hoarse and full of need, as your lips and teeth trailed across all of those scars, my scars, until the need to taste your skin became too great.

"Sirius, let me," my voice coming out breathy as I pushed you back, tugging on your trousers and pants. Your hands roamed every part of me that they could reach and my lips did the same to you.

"Merlin," I whispered, you shivering at the sensation of my breath across your stomach, "you taste like everything good, everything, and—"

My brain hadn't even thought far enough ahead to tell you what exactly it was that you tasted like (like the ocean, Padfoot, the taste of your soap and your skin was like the taste of a fresh, cool breeze over salty waves), but it didn't matter because you pulled my face up to yours, and it was all lips and teeth and tongues.

We lost our remaining clothes until it was just you and me, in our own little red-curtained corner of the world. Our bodies moved against each other until I saw starbursts and you gasped, "Fuck, Remus, you're _mine_."

And, afterwards, I remember thinking how sorry I felt for everyone else, because if _this_—sweaty, tangled limbs and being in love—felt even a fraction as amazing for the rest of them as it did for us, well, no one would ever leave the confines of their four-poster beds. I know, laying there in your bed, with you still breathing heavily beside me, that I certainly never wanted to.

094

Did you ever see the picture Lily gave me on my birthday, my last birthday that actually mattered, the last birthday before my world fell apart?

It was a picture of the four of us Marauders, out by the Lake, that day towards the end of seventh year when James had pushed you in and he and Peter were laughing on the banks. I came over to help you out but you, (being you) pulled me in as well, nearly on top of you. The picture shows me, sitting in the water next to you, arms crossed over my chest, James and Peter nearly in hysterics on shore, and you leaning over and surprising me with a quick kiss, my cheeks flushing just a little.

I keep it in my bedside table, not out or anything, but there, in case I ever want to pull it out, and sometimes I do even though it doesn't really answer any of the questions that have been lingering around my head all these years, but usually it makes me feel a little more _alive_. Because some days I just need the reminder that everything—us, the marauders—really happened and wasn't just some fantastic daydream I made up to ease the ache of my lonely existence.

097

I never planned for these things to keep happening in the first place, but I really thought the third time would be the last time.

I had woken up in the hospital wing, as per usual, and it had been the second time Moony had been joined by Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs in the Shrieking Shack. (I won't deny, now, that it was _amazing_ how much less injured I was after those two moons—even Pomfrey had commented).

But I awoke and felt, well not fantastic, but certainly better than almost any other time I could remember, but parts of the night kept coming back to me in flashes. A wolf and a dog, rolling around on the floor, my teeth sinking into Padfoot's shoulder, yours into my leg. I held out my arm and there was a large bruise and teeth marks that were not my own (because I could certainly recognize those by now), and I felt positively _sick_, Sirius.

I was so _stupid_, to let you three endanger yourselves, by being around me when I was transformed, it was not only reckless, but entirely selfish, too. Just being a werewolf, I could be dangerous even as a human, and it was probably because I fought for such tight control, that you never seemed to realize it. But when I was transformed, there was no controlling anything, and I was being a horrible, terrible friend by not putting a stop to it.

(I don't think any of you _really _understood what I was capable of, as a human, not until we were in the Order and a Death Eater sent a shot of green light at Lily, who ducked out of the way, but all I saw was red, and he was so close, that I forgot about my wand and hit him, hit him and hit him with everything I had, everything I never used, and he fell to the ground and didn't move again. I felt sick for days afterwards, but I don't think you had any idea, until then, what I was capable of.)

I found you all later that day in an empty, old Charms classroom.

"This is over." I said, nearly shaking I was so disgusted with myself.

"What is, Moony?" James asked.

"You're not coming with me anymore."

Three sets of eyes staring uncomprehendingly at me.

"We are," James said evenly.

"No. You are not," I responded as calmly as I was able.

And then you said, "You try to stop us. We'll come anyway."

"_You_ will not." I pointed at you, and I saw your eyes follow the bruise up my arm. I glared at you, because didn't you get it? I could never live with myself if something happened to James or Peter, but you, Sirius, I would die if something happened to you.

"But, Moony," Peter began. I glared at him as well, and he, at least, was smart enough to obey that unspoken warning.

"Remus," you said. "Look, we've gotten in fights as humans before. Why is this different?"

I let out a controlled breath before responding, "Because I could _kill _you, Sirius. You could die because of me. Or, worse," and I paused, barely able to sustain the thought, but you had to realize, "you could become like me."

"He couldn't," James interjected, "we can't be affected when we're animals, which is why we became Animagi, which you know."

"But what if I hurt one of you so badly that you can't maintain the spell, and you turn human again? What then?" The pitch of my voice sounded a little hysterical, even to me.

"That didn't even seem like a possibility last night, Remus." You tried to put a hand on my shoulder, but I turned away, out of your reach.

"It's not going to happen," Peter interjected. "I did research on that, it's never happened."

"But it _could_, and how could I—what would I do, if I killed you," my eyes darting between the three of you, but lingering too long on yours, "any of you?"

"But it's probably impossible." James came to stand beside you. "Remus, Sirius is completely fine—you look worse than he does, to be honest—and we are not going to leave you alone on a full moon ever again. Never."

"We _need _to be with you," you said, "it makes it better for everyone, please don't deny that."

And I didn't because of course it made it better, for me at least, but how could you not see what it would do to me if I anything were to happen to any of you.

And I stepped forward and kissed you, and it was nothing like the other two times, because this time it was hard and angry and tasted an awful lot like good bye. I stepped back and said,

"You do not _understand me_."

101

It is strange how time just continues on, even though my life ceased to exist, continue, on the 31st of October. Like the rest of the world moved on, improbably, but I am still here, stuck in the past.

106

James found me about half an hour later, up in the owlery. I heard him coming up the steps but kept my back to him, quickly swiping at my eyes, until he coughed and said, "So…"

"Yeah…" I said turning around and he sighed, seeing my eyes, although he didn't say anything about it. I could tell this was a mess that he really didn't want to have to clean up, but he was doing it anyway, because he loved us, and we would (did) do the same for him.

He stood there silently for a minute, before suddenly breaking the silence, "You know what I don't understand?"

I looked up at him, but he didn't seem to require an answer and continued,

"I don't understand why the two of you are doing this to yourselves."

He started pacing, like he always did when he was upset.

"The not-wanting-us-to-come-with-you bit doesn't surprise me; I expected it to be honest, because you think too much about everyone else sometimes, Remus, and not nearly enough about yourself."

He turned to face me, "So let's clear that up first. Remus" he said, voice softening "when are you going to understand that we are your _friends_, and that part of that job title includes doing idiotic, stupid things for one another?" He paused to grin, but continued,

"We _want _to be out there with you, and we have put a lot of time and effort into it so that we could be. You're already used to this, but you have to remember that we're not, and it's going to take a few full moons before Moony is used to us, and few moons before we know what things we should and shouldn't do around a werewolf. You can't expect us to be perfect after the first two tries, Remus."

He looked up at me and held my stare, not blinking. "We are coming out with you next month, okay?"

And I nodded, because he was right.

"Alright." He said, rubbing his hands together and beginning to pace again. "Onto the bigger issue."

"The whole, you being noble thing I get, but this—this thing with Sirius—that is what I don't get. It's not like Pete or I _care, _for Merlin's sake, if we were going to care about something you would think we would be more worried about the whole 'I'm a werewolf' thing. I mean, yes, I'll admit we were…_surprised, _but we don't _care. _And if we don't care, why would it matter if anyone else does?"

"So, what I don't understand is why Sirius is downstairs, all torn up, and you are up here, all torn up, when you clearly both want the same thing."

He stopped pacing to look at me again, taking a deep breath, "What's stopping the two of you, Remus?"

"I—it's complicated…" I mumbled. He walked up to me, so he was standing in front of me,

"Bullshit." He said quietly. "It's not complicated, it's terrifying, and that's what's stopping you."

And he was right, again.

He put a hand on my shoulder and said, "You know Moony, I'm not in either of your positions, and I can't say that I wouldn't be just as apprehensive, but what I _can_ tell you is that unrequited love— or whatever this is that I've got going on— sucks, it sucks really bad; at least you've got the added bonus of knowing that Sirius feels the same way as you do."

He turned to leave and got to the doorway before I called out,

"Prongs…" He halted in the doorway, looking back at me, "thank you." I said, softly, but he nodded his head, just once, before disappearing down the steps.

109

I stayed up there awhile longer, knowing that James would probably tell you where I was. I wasn't disappointed. I heard you come up the steps, and I saw the white puffs of warm breath in the cool night air before I saw you.

"Hello Padfoot."

"Moony." You acknowledged, tugging off James' cloak.

You came to stand beside me, looking out over the grounds. "That was rather public, wasn't it." I said, and you (rightly) assumed I didn't expect an answer. Instead, you said,

"Did I really hurt you last night?"

"What?" I said, but then I vaguely remembered the way your eyes had followed the bruise snaking up my arm, "No, of course not, you idiot. Did I hurt you?"

"No." was all you said.

It was silent for a while as we both stared unseeingly out at the forest, before you said,

"Except, why do you always say we can't?"

"You say it, too," I pointed out.

"But you said it first."

"But you agreed."

"I did," you conceded, "but sometimes, Remus, I feel like" you paused and took a breath, "I feel like we could."

I closed my eyes, because, Merlin, Sirius, I _wanted _to. I wanted to so badly it hurt sometimes. Because James had part of it right, I _was _terrified, I was certainly terrified for me, but mostly Sirius, I was terrified for you.

Because, Sirius, you were amazing, wonderful, _brilliant_, and you were going places, and me, being what I was, I would only stand in your way. You would face ridicule that you had never known, and it was hardly worth it when the prize was only me.

"But, Sirius," I finally said, "there are _rules_—"

"Fuck them," you said. "Honestly, Remus. I understand." And we both cringed at the weight that word carried after _You do not __understand me_. "I get it," you said quickly, trying to cover up, but I already felt terribly guilty, "that you are already carrying stupid prejudices up to your ears, that you can barely even think of handling more, but, Remus, I could help you handle this one. This one I do understand, completely, down to my bones. This one I want to take on with you."

"That was mean of me," I said, "to say that you don't get it. You try so damn hard to get it, and you do, more than anyone else, you do, and I'm sorry, I'm—"

"You're avoiding the real issue, which means, I guess," you let out a long sigh that sounded like defeat, "you don't want to try?"

Of course I did, Sirius. Of course I did. I wanted you more than I had ever wanted anything in my entire life, and it broke my heart, thinking that you didn't know that.

I reached over, pulling your hand out of your pocket, twining your long fingers with mine, warm in the cool night air, and said,

"I do, I do, I love you." Because I couldn't bear the thought that you didn't know. You squeezed my hand and said,

"Good. I love you, too."

111

I remember at Lily and James' wedding, the way all the women stared at you in awe, giggling when you grinned, swooning when you winked at me from James' side at the altar.

And I remember this as clearly as I remember the day I got my Hogwarts letter; you had just finished taking wedding party photos, and doing other wedding party things, and I was sitting at a table, and you smiled at me from across the dance floor, and made your way over, two drinks in hand. Every head turned as you walked by, Sirius, every woman hoping beyond a doubt that you were headed over to them with a drink and a pick up line.

And I just sat there at my table watching, as you parted through the sea of adoring women (and James' cousin Sam, although James would deny it) and not once did your eyes stray from mine, like you didn't even notice you had collected your usual jar full of hearts; you never seemed to be aware of the effect you had on people.

But I noticed, and when you got to me you smiled and said "Hey there," softly, as you set the drinks down on the table before us, leaning down until your lips brushed mine. I could hear the collective disappointed sigh of all those that had hoped to be yours, if only for the night, and I wondered, as I often wondered—as they were probably all wondering too— how is it that you love me? How did I ever get so lucky? I felt like I could touch the stars that night, because somehow you loved me more than I ever deserved and you had eyes only for me.

114

Have I ever mentioned the way I love your skin, Sirius? The taste of it, the feel of it under my hands, lips, the way I know it better than my own.

Your ribs have a thin white line—a little jagged about the edges—that runs across them (how many times had my lips followed it up your torso in silent apology?)

There is another scar that starts in your hairline just behind your left ear and runs across the base of your skull (I was sick for hours, waiting for you to wake up after you took that bludger to the head).

A few raised slashes are strewn across your shoulders and back (courtesy of your family), and the muggle tattoo you got over top of them (a final "fuck you" to your family, you had said, as you tried to pretend the needle didn't hurt).

So, what bothers me is, if you became Voldemort's right-hand man— like they say you did—where was your Dark Mark, Sirius? Because I have memorized every inch of your skin—touched, kissed, every inch of your beautiful skin—and never once was it marred with an unsightly snake and skull.

118

We were sixteen when you broke my heart.

I remember waking up in the hospital wing, a little more sore than usual, but happy, normal, expecting to see the three of you. Instead, I awoke to Dumbledore, face set, with James and Peter standing just behind him. And you know, Sirius, my first thought was of you. I thought something had happened to you and it was my fault, all my fault. I felt ill.

But Dumbledore explained, and my fingers clenched the bed sheets, as he explained and explained, and I was angry and sick to my stomach, and felt like crying or hitting someone all at once. Because it was about Snape, it was always something about Snape.

James and Peter left with Dumbledore, and Madame Pomfrey cleared me to leave within the hour.

I remember this, I walked out of the hospital and there you were, pacing the corridor. You looked up at me, and the look on your face was so remorseful, and somehow that just made me even more angry, because the smallest, most irrational part of me wanted you to say that you hadn't done it, hadn't meant to do it, something, anything.

You followed me to an empty classroom, where I shoved you inside and slammed the door, the frame quivering on its hinges.

"You," I said, my fist connecting with your stomach, "utter," another fist, "fucking," and another, "_imbecile_," the fight seeping out of me with each punctuated word, until I slumped against the wall in defeat, my hands coming to cover my face as I slid down to sit on the cold stones.

"You hate him so much more," I lowered my hands to look at you, "so much more than you love me."

A pause where it seemed you couldn't say anything and then, "I _don't_."

"You do," I said. "Sirius, you just don't _see_ it. But you would sacrifice me—my sanity, my happiness, my secret—just to injure him. I might have killed him, and don't you know how that would have ended everything for me?"

"You wouldn't have," you insisted, "I was there; I was going to stop you from doing anything."

"And then everyone would have known about _you_, Sirius. Merlin, it's so fucked up and twisted. Do you know?" I laughed, and it sounded hollow and cynical, even to myself. "I actually feel jealous of how much you hate him. At least you would give up everything for him."

You didn't say anything and I left, fighting tears.

122

It was a whole month after your prank on Snape, when I came into the dorm and it was just you, sitting on your bed, waiting for me. I thought about leaving, about walking straight back out of the room, but I sighed, because how long was this silence going to last—was I going to keep ignoring you until we graduated?

So, resigned, I walked into the room and stopped in front of you and said, "Yes, Sirius?"

You took a deep breath and said—

"I should never, ever have done that. I should have known that nothing good would come of it—he's just a nosy git, and I shouldn't have let him get to me, but—but that doesn't matter because what does matter is that I love you and fuck, Remus, not talking to you has been like not having a heartbeat or eyes or something very important. I feel like,"

I cut you off because I _knew_ what it felt like—because it had been the same on my end—and said,

"You do understand, don't you, that if you do something like that again—something that jeopardizes me at the full moon, my integrity, my sanity, or someone else's safety in regards to me—then we are over. Actually over. Never speaking again."

I swallowed, trying to force down the sickness in my stomach at the thought, "I love you, Sirius, and it would kill me, but I would leave you, if that happened again."

"Of course," you had said, "Of course. I promise."

126

In retrospect, it was one of the few promises you ended up keeping when you tore our worlds apart.

130

I received an owl today, Sirius, from Dumbledore, asking me to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. I will most likely decline, but can you imagine it, Sirius, me, a professor?

At least if I were to hear, "Yes, Professor Lupin" this time it would not be accompanied by two identical eye rolls from two black-haired marauders. I remember how I would always scowl at the pair of you when you would say that (and promise you that if you were not going to work on your homework, I was _not _going to let you copy my essays, even though I usually did anyway).

It's funny, really, the things that you end up missing the most.

134

I forgave you and began speaking to you again 30 days after the Snape incident, but I did something almost as awful as you had on the 14th day of silence between us.

It had been two whole weeks and I still could not look at you without feeling the pain of your betrayal acutely, let alone speak to you. I had been coming down from Gryffindor tower and met you in a corridor halfway between there and the library. It was just the two of us and I could tell it was you as soon as I rounded the corner—I would recognize that fluid, elegant gait anywhere, even if your steps were more hesitant than usual.

And when I saw you, I felt it—that constant, want, need, _desire_—that I had been trying to supress for the last 14 days. I _hated _it, Sirius, the way you still had this effect on me even though you had shown me how little I meant to you. You nodded at me Sirius, _nodded, _as you passed—like I was just this casual acquaintance, like some Hufflepuff you had once shared a table with in Charms—and I _snapped_. I snapped because I needed you to still be just as affected by me as I was by you.

My hands fisted in your robes, shoving you into the nearest classroom, bodies pressed against each other, a small, confused "Remus" slipping between your lips before my fingers came to cover them, pressing hard against them, because I didn't want to hear your voice. My forehead met yours; pressing you back, back until you were flush with the blackboard behind you, I let my fingers drop from your mouth, little red fingerprints visible in the corner; I had been pressing so hard.

My mouth met yours and it was bruising, insistent, and every bit as angry as I felt. My hands came to settle on the chalky surface of either side of your head, trapping you there, between my arms. My lips, teeth, strayed to your neck, leaving marks as I pushed your robes, clothes, out of the way, my nails raking hard against the skin of your stomach.

Our bodies were flush and both of our breathing laboured, and I knew you could feel that I was just as hard as you were as my hands drifted lower, lower, until I unceremoniously shoved your trousers and pants down just far enough that I could jerk you off. I didn't let my eyes meet yours; never let them stray from that old, dusty blackboard, staring at the handprints now added to the chalky swirls—the same hands that were now fastened back over your mouth, and fast and unforgiving around you.

When you finally came, shaking and with something that sounded a lot like "Moony" sucked in between your lips—although I ignored it—I wiped my hand on your shirt, because—and I'm not proud of it—but because I needed you to be hurting too. It was clear that you still wanted me as much as I wanted you, but the part of my chest that throbbed painfully at just the sight of you, took pleasure in showing you that you meant nothing to me, too—disgusted me even—no matter how much of a lie it was.

And if I was already full of regret, I made sure not to show you as I turned around and left you standing there, pants partially down, shirt up, dazed and unkempt.

137

Boundless.

That's how you described us late one night during our last month at Hogwarts—as we were perched on the brink of adulthood—sprawled out in the grass looking up at the stars, just the two of us.

You had said, "You know the best part about being us, Moony?"

"Hmm?" I asked as your fingers idly played with the hair at the nape of my neck.

"Neither of us have any commitments, or family expectations to live up to, or any idea what we are going to do for the rest of our lives," you said as if this were a good thing, propping yourself up on one elbow so you could look at me,

"You know what that makes us, Moony?"

You were smiling when I glanced at you, so I laughed and said,

"Umm…pathetic? Purposeless?"

You laughed in response and it was as sweet as the summer air around us as you rolled over so you were on top of me, your nose brushing mine.

"Boundless, Moony. It makes us completely and utterly boundless," you whispered into my lips, "There is nothing and no one stopping us from doing exactly what we want to do, and being exactly who we want to be, for the rest of forever."

And it felt profound—laying there underneath stars that stretched further than we could see—the idea that in that moment, you and I were infinite.

140

I found myself in that abandoned classroom between the library and Gryffindor some few weeks after we began speaking again, because try as I might, the guilt would not stop resurfacing. You found me after a while, and I could tell you'd rather not remember it either, the way you sat on the desk across from me, while I sat on the floor beneath the sweaty handprints I had left in the chalk.

"I am so," I said, my eyes at your feet, "so unbelievably _sorry_."

You set your hands on your lap and took a steadying breath, but said, "You were angry. With reason."

"But I," I said, the heels of my hands pressing into my face, "I treated you like utter shit."

"And I almost informed the whole school of your wolfishness _and_ turned you into a murderer in one go, so really, you had the right to treat me like shit."

I closed my eyes and took a breath. "No, not like that, I didn't," I said softly, meeting your eyes for a moment before focusing back on your shoes.

"You know, I made it as far as the bathroom three doors down, wanked in a stall and cried like a five year old?"

You didn't say anything and the silence stretched on and on.

"Please, please, be honest with me right now." I whispered, but it sounded loud in the dusty, abandoned classroom that held just the two of us.

"Well," you said, sliding from the desk to the floor in front of me, tapping my shoe with your hand so that I met your eye. "I understand why you did it. I wish you hadn't,—"

I nodded, a short, terse bob of my head,

"—but I do get it. You'll remember I didn't exactly try to stop you," you said and I nodded again.

"so we were both there, we were both idiots, we both made mistakes—and mine was eons more serious, Moony—and I love you, and you love me, and I suppose we can carry on, knowing that we've hurt each other."

Your face twisted up in a small smile, "People do that, you know. We hurt each other. It's sort of the way these things go."

I smiled back and you stood up, stuck out your hand and hauled me to my feet, leading me out of that classroom. I never bothered going back.

141

I keep expecting to awake, but my nightmare has stolen into my waking hours as well and I cannot make it go away. You have escaped, Sirius, and word has it that you are off to finish the job, that you are after Harry.

(The picture in the paper is terrifying. Who is this man? I think to myself, for he looks every bit as deranged as they claim him to be, and nothing like the you I thought I knew.)

I have written Dumbledore accepting the job, for Harry, because I need to feel as if I have done something to protect him, for James and Lily.

143

It is strange and wonderful, being back at Hogwarts. It is also sad and puts me a little on edge—waiting for the ghosts of my past to jump out at me—but mostly it is strange and wonderful.

It is strange spending the night in my quarters, rather than heading up to Gryffindor tower. It is strange how everything has changed but this castle is still the same— each passage, hallway, classroom, whispers memories back into my consciousness—but even without the Map I know it like the back of my hand.

It is wonderful to see the kids, to teach them, and a little strange because most of their parents are our age, and I kind of forgot that people carried on with their lives— got married, had children—while I was busy drowning, suffocating, in my own memories.

144

It has been twelve years exactly and we have just finished sweeping the castle for you. Why tonight, of all nights, Padfoot? You must have known they would have all been down at the feast, and not in Gryffindor tower. I am more confused than ever, and add that to what tonight is the anniversary of—an anniversary I never wanted to have, embedded forever in my mind—and it is just too much.

145

I am fortunate that the children don't know about my ties with the murderer they are all terrified of, but it is hard being here, Sirius, while you are on the loose. The ones that do know—the professors, Rosmerta— they look at me with something remarkably like pity in their eyes.

And then there is Snape. He is here Sirius, did I tell you? He teaches here, and he takes out his hatred of James on Harry, like the petty, loathsome man that he is. You've no idea, Sirius, how much it taxes my patience being civil with that man.

But I do, because he is a fellow staff member, he makes the wolfsbane potion for me each month (I forgot to tell you about that too, didn't I? With it I am still Moony, but my mind is my own), and quite frankly, we are both adults and should be capable of overcoming our differences. But sometimes he makes remarks that are low blows, even for him.

Today over breakfast I asked Dumbledore for permission about some of the curriculum I wanted to teach and he told me to do what I had planned on doing because he trusted my judgment.

When Dumbledore had finished eating and left, Snape leaned over and said, "A bit rich of him to trust your judgment, wouldn't you say? I mean, you have such an excellent track record, what is it, only fifteen dead at the hands of your murdering _boyfriend_? Good judgment on that one, Lupin."

I pretended not to hear him, as I finished my toast, but when I got back to my office, with an hour before my first lesson, I felt the hot tears brim over because it wasn't like I had needed reminding of the fact that that oversight has cost me my entire life as I knew it—my best friends, the man I loved—in one quick, neat swipe.

146

He asked me about you today, Sirius, and I almost could not look at him out of shame. I hear it in my ears as my heart beats; _I am in love with the man that cost you your future, Harry. My heart belongs to your traitor, who would have seen you dead too_.

What an awful person that makes me.

But I try to ignore it because he is Harry—no longer little, baby Harry with too much hair and eyes you cannot say no to—but strong, brave, hero-of-our-world Harry. And as terrible as it is—hating myself for loving you, still, always— you should see him Sirius, he is so brave, so strong, so much more than we were at that age.

His life is so much more serious than ours was, Padfoot. When we were thirteen we were falling in love and worrying about that, because then it was _we can't_ (even though we _could_, you were right Sirius, Merlin, we could) and yet Harry is learning to protect himself from dementors because they make him hear Lily and James being murdered.

(He told me later, but I knew it the first time. When the dementors boarded the train looking for _you, _the force of it knocked him out, and when he came around he asked if we had heard a woman screaming. I couldn't meet his eyes because I _knew, _I _knew_ and I even knew the exact sound of that scream, the pitch, the note of desperation; it was the scream she made after we came back from a fight for the Order, do you remember Sirius?

James was bloodied and unconscious and we were carrying him between the two of us, and for a moment, a terrible moment, she thought the worst, and that scream, that terrible noise, it was the sound of someone who thought they had lost everything.

I was relieved from having to tell Harry that the screaming was happening inside both of our heads because his friends had no idea what had just happened, and no one screamed Harry, they said.

I had to excuse myself because how could I assure him that everything was going to be alright, when her voice was still ringing around my ears? Because the dementors bring it out of me too, and we share some of the same demons, Harry and I, even if he doesn't know it.)

How is it fair, Sirius, that you and I, you and I and James and Peter, got those years, those blissful, wonderful years at Hogwarts—even if the war ruined everything, _you _ruined everything—how is it fair that we got those years, and Harry, wonderful Harry, has had nothing from the start and it seems to only get harder for him, each obstacle passed means a new one is presented?

His Hogwarts is not our Hogwarts, Sirius, and it breaks my heart.

147

I fear that you are Padfoot again, and that is how you are accomplishing it, Sirius.

Well, no, that is not accurate. Saying that I fear that you are Padfoot leaves a little more ambiguity, a little less responsibility on my shoulders to tell Dumbledore, when in all honesty I am almost certain we should be looking for a big, shaggy dog, rather than a skeletal man in striped robes.

Do you remember that time, late in 7th year, when we were sitting on my bed, facing each other, just talking? And you were talking about how you couldn't wait to get out and start fighting?

I remember saying, "Sometimes I wish I was like you and James, but I'm not Sirius, I'm not brave or courageous or any of the other things that a Gryffindor is supposed to be."

I leaned back on the pillows, so that I didn't have to meet your eye,

"I'm so glad I got sorted here, because I would be lost without you guys, without _you_, Sirius, but not once in my life have I ever felt like a true Gryffindor."

And you were silent for several moments, but eventually you crawled up to the top of the bed and lay back against the pillows too, so that we were side by side, and you said, "Sometimes bravery isn't rashness or impulsiveness or gallantry, or any of that crap,"

Your hand reached out to hold mine, loosely twining our fingers together,

"Sometimes the most impressive sort of bravery is the kind that isn't as obvious. The strength and courage to face every new day, every new moon—even though you face a world so prejudiced that it's sickening— even though you know it will mean scars and blood and broken bones," your fingers spasmed over mine,

"You face it without complaint and your chin up, and if you ask me, that's an awful lot more brave than smarting off to a Slytherin."

You turned onto your side, so we were face to face, your mouth curving up in a small smile as you ran your thumb across my jaw,

"Sometimes people confuse bravery with foolishness."

At the time, your words sank into my very soul and came to me in some of my darkest moments—but now I think you were wrong, Sirius, because there has been a total of seventeen times— seventeen times, Sirius—where I have almost told Dumbledore, yet I still have not.

The guilt is eating away at me.

148

Harry's patronus is Prongs, Sirius. _Prongs. _I don't know why I was so surprised—because this whole year has been about digging up the dead it seems—but it caught me off guard nonetheless.

I saw it today at the quidditch match, when he sent a patronus after that Malfoy boy—yes, Lucius and Narcissa's son; he is exactly as you would imagine their progeny to be, Sirius—that was trying to torment him by dressing as a dementor.

(Harry's eyes never left the snitch, and I am glad, momentarily, that neither you nor James were here to see it, because I am positive that the fact that this _thirteen-year-old_ produced a _corporeal patronus_ would be overlooked in lieu of the fact that he still caught the snitch)

My heart ached today, as that brilliant white stag pranced across the quidditch pitch, just as graceful as Prongs ever was.

149

I wonder sometimes, vaguely, if it is counterproductive of me to produce a patronus using memories of the man the dementors are searching for in the first place.

150

A part of me wants to visit the Shack, because not all the memories there are bad. I won't do it, of course, because I am terrified of you being there. How would I react to seeing you? Would you try to kill me? And what of my duty of apprehending you should I find you? No, I don't want to be the one to find you. But I think of the Shack sometimes.

One memory that sticks out, has played through my head over and over, like a favourite record, was the morning where you came back to the Shack by yourself after the other two had gone to bed, which in and of itself was not entirely unusual.

But you came back and the sun was already up, shining through the grimy windows enough that I could see the dust motes floating around in the cool morning air, as I absently picked at the blood crusted around a cut on my ankle.

"The blood's dry," you commented as you sat beside me, which, I realize, would have been an odd comment to an outsider, but you knew it usually meant it had been a fairly decent transformation.

"Yes." I said, picking at it a little longer before getting bored and dropping it with a sigh.

"How many scars do you think I'll get before I finally die, Padfoot?"

You glanced at the cut I had been picking at, and then stared at an overturned table that I'm sure you weren't really seeing, so I watched the dust motes swirl around a little longer. Finally, you said,

"This is selfish, but I hope you'll live long enough to be all over scars. You cannot die, Moony, until I am ready to die with you."

Your words hung in the still morning air, my brain barely able to wrap around them. I squeezed my eyes shut at the sudden unexpected moisture, and let out a careful, shaking breath.

"It still amazes me," I whispered into the cool morning stillness, "astounds me, that you could love me at all."

"I do, I do, I do," you practically sang against my lips when yours met mine, "I love you like—I love you so—it's suffocating."

"When I die," I said, contemplating, "When I die, I want to have drowned in you."

"When we die," you corrected, "and every moment of our long, prosperous lives flash before our elderly eyes, I hope they are full of moments like this one."

My lips met yours again, and it was a long time before the dust finally settled again.

I think of that morning sometimes, Sirius, and that's how I always want to remember it; how I always want to remember us. Because I was your anchor and you were my buoy. You kept me afloat when the world tried to drag me down, and I, well I like to think I kept you a little grounded, anchored down to reality instead of floating away on a reckless breeze.

151

I have just confiscated the Map from Harry, Sirius. Or rather, Snape confiscated it and tried to make it reveal its contents (which resulted, as you know, in him being personally insulted by our Map-selves—his face was a frightening shade of puce when I arrived). I covered for Harry, taking it under pretense of examining it for dark magic.

James would be positively delighted to know it had ended up in the hands of his own son. I couldn't give it back to him though, with you on the loose and no sooner to being caught than the day you escaped. I shudder to think of what child's play it would be for you, had you come across it before I.

(I was never actually sure if you and James lost it on purpose to Filch, in the hopes that your legacy might be carried on; or if the pair of you just got careless with a week left before the end of our seventh year. Whichever the scenario, I distinctly remember there being copious amounts of singing, firewhiskey and tears involved.)

My heart stopped though, for a moment, when I saw it, that piece of old parchment I thought had been lost forever. I had nearly forgotten how small and cramped James' hand writing was, or how pointed and elegant yours was, or the way Peter's letters curled up at the ends, like he was always in such a hurry to get to the next one.

Snape may not have known how to work it, but he certainly recognized our nicknames—because who didn't know the Marauders when we went to school? you and James were infamous, and so were Peter and I by extension.

Snape was positively livid, though, when I feigned ignorance.

152

The world finally righted itself tonight, Padfoot, before Peter stole it all away, again.

(It was strange, being in the Shack again after all this time, because you are no longer the carefree, handsome boy you were, and I am no longer young and naïve either, but holding you in my arms again, briefly, was like the years where my world had been upside-down and hanging off its hinges, had never happened.)

I know that you know this, but I feel the need to say it again; I am horribly, terribly, _unbelievably_ _sorry_ that I did not figure it out sooner. You believed the worst of me, and I of you, and those are twelve long years we will never get back. (It was indescribable, incredible, seeing you with Harry. I would be willing to bet James and Lily were beaming, watching the two of you; I know I was.)

The fact that Snape has told my secret is insignificant, irrelevant, in the face of the fact that you are innocent, Sirius. You are innocent, and you have escaped yet again. I am sure the anger will come later, at Peter, for everything he has done—then and now—but right now, at this moment, my heart is lighter than it has felt in almost thirteen years.

I wish I could join you, even as you are on the run, because then, at the very least, I would not be awake well into the night, as I am now, wondering where you are, hoping that you are safe. My world has been realigned, Sirius—my whole life makes sense again—and the next time I see you, I will hold you and never let you go, and I will tell you that I love you—still, always— because even when I believed the worst of you, my heart, it seems, always knew the truth.

* * *

**A/N: **Kind of sort of a happy ending? I tried as much as I could, but thats kind of the curse of wolfstar isn't it? That they never truly get their happy ending. *sigh* Anyway, I would really, _really_ love to know what you thought, and if you liked it don't forget to check out All The Ways We Drowned, which is Sirius' side of the story. :D


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